


Dacw 'Nghariad

by HardingHightown



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, older lavellan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardingHightown/pseuds/HardingHightown
Summary: She has lived her life by the time she finds herself in the Conclave, and has lived a whole life more with the Inquisition. Through three Keepers, three continents, a husband, children, grandchildren, discovery, clarity, and loss. Gennol Lavellan has lived her life by the way of her clan, the old way, and now she must live a new life to save the world.An older Lavellan, finding a way through an inquisition that pushes her into new experiences, including new love.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan & Solas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Yr Helfa

**Author's Note:**

> Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan  
> O na bawn i yno fy hunan  
> Dacw'r ty a dacw'r sgubor, dacw ddrws y beudy'n agor
> 
> Roes fy mhen ar eneth dirion,  
> Hon sy' bron â thorri 'nghalon,  
> Wylo bu achos iddi hithau, wylo peth amdanaf finnau.
> 
> Dacw'r delyn, dacw'r tannau,  
> Beth ywf gwell heb neb i'w chwarae,  
> Dacw'r fwynwen, hoenus, dirion, beth wyf well heb gael ei chalon
> 
> Mae rhai mannau ar y mynydd,  
> ag sydd llawer gwell na'i gilydd,  
> A llefydd nad oes neb yn gwybod, felly hwythau y genethod
> 
> _There is my love down in the orchard  
>  Oh, that I were there myself  
> There is the house and there is the barn, there is the cowshed opening_
> 
> _I put my head on a kind girl,  
>  She who has nearly broken my heart,  
> there was cause for her to weep, weep a little for me_
> 
> _There’s the harp, there’s the strings,  
>  It’s no good without anyone to play,  
> There’s the gentle, spirited, gracious fair one, I’m no good without having her heart_
> 
> _There are some places on the mountain,  
>  and some much better than others,  
> And places nobody knows, likewise the girls themselves._

Passing through the _Eluvian_ always felt like the moment where you jolt awake, the body contracting, feeling as if it were to fall into the ground and shatter you completely. Two years on from her last passing, her body older and the mark spread up her arm like a poison, she felt as if it might tear her into pieces. She could hear Bull calling her back through the dimensions rift, the spike of fear in his voice as she chased after those whose power he knew all too well, the voice warping as she passed far away from them and landed, softly, on mossy grass.

The stillness of the air was the first thing she noticed. Nothing sat on it. Nothing passed over on it. It was heavy with what she would have thought was dampness given the softness under-foot, but the air on her throat felt dry and her nostrils stung with each breath. There was no movement here, as if the whole image had been conjured, but even the familiar flow of reality of the fade felt like a distant dream. All around her, there were carvings so intricate that she could swear she could see the sweat on their arms, carvings of Qunari frozen in battle, their skin pulled taught over strong muscles as they ranged their attack. More of them ahead, more of… the same, faces that now she looked again were matching in this harsh light to those she had faced. The same men and women. The very same, turned to stone.

This was old magic. Older, more powerful magics than she had seen. Magic that she had only heard about from Keeper Brynmor Las as a child, when he spoke with a crackly voice by a crackling fire of the old world, of the splendour of the _Evanuris_ , the power that they granted to the people and the balance of that world. This air, this stone, the softness of the ground beneath her feet, the unmoving clouds in the sky and the fragments of fragments around her took her right back to being a child, sitting cross-legged, her braid in her mouth, wondering what it would be like to see a God.

Finally, something broke the air. The sound of talking, the language not elven, not common, the same voice she had chased here threatening the agent. She ran through the petrified graveyard, arriving just in time to see her enemy freeze with a javelin in her hand, poised to stab The Agent of Fen'Harel in the back.  
She expected to feel many things when at last they saw each other again. She expected that same giddy feeling that gripped her all those years ago, the spinning air that lifted her old, soft body and made it young again. She expected to feel her heart in her throat once more, yet seeing him now, resplendent in furs and fine silks, his face shining in the light, she had never felt more grounded, as if the earth beneath them was pulling her itself. That face that once she had seen as so youthful now instead seemed ageless, the soft sheen she had thought was simply love’s eyes making him seem perfect sparking with a magic she hadn’t, couldn’t have, understood. She saw it now. She saw it with such clarity her ears burned pink with the shame of it.

“Solas.”

“ _Vehnan_.”

His voice sounded different here, or maybe it was just the time spent apart that made him sound so. The voice that left this man, unaltered in his features by the years apart, seemed to be tinged with a strength she did not remember from their time together. This voice, once faltering, once skimming across his words like a rock over a placid lake, clung firmly to each word. She remembered quiet moments sat watching him painting, quiet moments reading together, that word whispered with uncertainty by somebody she had thought… somebody she had assumed…

She moved towards him, hand on the hilt of her dagger.

At once, the mark flared yet again, the green burning her eye as it sparked up to her shoulder socket, forcing her to her knees and making her face flush scarlet with rage. With but a tilt of his head, the spark withered away, leaving in its place shrivelled blackened flesh. She looked up at him, expecting to see that same coldness that he had shown the Viddasala, but instead she saw only sadness meeting her rage.

“I can see in your eyes that you do not need me to tell you. I would not expect anything else.”

“Solas, _sahlin_ ,” she said, her hands reaching to touch a bow she could not grasp as she staggered to her feet. “ _Harellan. Fen'Harel_. I feel like I have been hunting you my whole life.”


	2. Breuddwyd

Deshanna Istimaethoriel had been brought to Clan Lavellan in winter, she remembered that clearly; before the snow had started to fall, but for it to be cold enough with ice in the air for the cold to get into her feet as she and the rest of the consort waited. The fog in that part of the woodlands had almost masked their small aravels completely. They had agreed to terms that meant that Deshanna was to be accompanied by the entirety of her small clan, whereas they, they who had more need, had to make do with a few of their better hunters and some of their young to trade.

She remembered how pale the girl from Lavellan had been, even if she could not remember her name. She had big eyes the shade of turning leaves and an overbite that chattered in the cold, a sniffly nose and blood bursts across her long face. Gennol remembered telling her that it wouldn’t be too bad, that she would have a choice of suitor in the new clan, though in truth with the size of the travelling party she wasn’t sure there was much hope for them to last in these new, harsher climbs yet alone offer her much of a choice of bond. The girl was one of three promised in the trade, with the twin sons of Dilys Dremornial trying not to shake in the cold next to her. The handsomer of the two was not a great loss, but the smaller had shown great skill at the hearth and was a valuable trade. Dilys had wept so, you would not have known she had four others left to her. Still, magic hadn’t been seen in a generation in Clan Lavellan. They needed the blood, and none had found them, so they had to find it themselves.

She had hoped that maybe one of her sons would be blessed with the gift. Her eldest, Goronwy, keen with blade and bow didn’t have the temperament even if he had the aptitude, but the younger, Gwid, soft Gwid who spoke to the trees and tended the Halla, sweet Gwid who could conjure simple flame for the fire… she had hoped he might grow with his gift. But he was a quiet child, one that grew not into greatness but into kindness and compassion, never happier than when he was alone transforming the flesh of the trees into something new and useful. He was too soft to lead, and that was that.

 _Lath araval ena._ The path reveals itself, and the path followed the footsteps of Deshanna Istimaethoriel, the steel eyed youth given over to her protection on that winter’s day, that youth she had expected to be shaking like her age-mates, yet instead kept her head high, meeting her gaze with a strength that seemed out of place in once so young. Deshanna had only cried when embracing her mother for the last time, but when she left her, she did not look back.

Travelling back with the girl offered an opportunity to see her skill in action as they were set upon by a pack of wolves, starved by the slim pickings of the winter and fighting with the last fits of starvation. She had been impressive, conjuring great bolts of lightning that left patches in the frosty grass and usable furs on the wolves. Gennol had to skin them herself as one of the beasts had bitten Mafren in the side, enough to pierce the skin badly. Deshanna’s healing had staved off the worst of it, but her skills in that area were weaker, showing her inexperience. She had cast spell after spell, a faint red flush settling across the bridge of her fine nose as they served only to knit the flesh together roughly. No matter, she had told her. Keeper Elun had strong curing magic that could fix any mistakes. It only made the child flush more, not out of shame as she may have assumed, but in anger. She remembered thinking how strange it was to be that age, so full of promise, so ready to learn yet yearning to already know it all. She wanted to tell Deshanna to be patient, that she had promise enough to grow into a powerful and competent leader, that patience would guide her along a better path than pride, but it wasn’t her place. Keeper Elun was charged with her, and Elun would not want her to tell a child how to live given how Gennol herself was at that age, full of passions that seemed like a trick of the veil.

The journey back was not long, two days at most. Enough distance to keep both clan’s safe from joint attack, close enough to mean they did not have to travel long with such precious cargo. Deshanna was agape at the sight of their aravels through the woods as they approached, their many sails not patched and faded like the sails of her own clan, the camp teaming with children from the past few years. How, she had asked her, eyes darting over as Gwid ran to his mother and into her arms. How is your clan so…

“We keep to ourselves, fend for ourselves,” Gennol had told her, “as much as we can. We keep the old ways and do not keep with those who are not our own. We persevere. We survive.”

We persevere. We survive. We keep our ways.

New blood was always a risk. In the past, flat-ears had come to them from cities infested with plague, laying out the infirm and the young. Poor trade had left them in bad stead in the past few years, but Deshanna lived up to her promise in her magic. With every year she grew in skill, in poise, in determination and confidence in herself. She learned all she could from Elun within ten years, and the elder Keeper did not see fit to pull in her passionate First. Deshanna Istimaethoriel taught the children the common tongue of the shemlen, to read the words written in the language of the city folk. She told the Hahren new stories for the fire, stories Gennol had never heard before. She enchanted the weapons of the hunting apprentices, letting them become lazy in their convenience. She opened up new trade, first with new clans and then with dwarves from the merchant’s guild. She sent the hunters, her own brothers and sisters, to spy on the Shemlen, to seek out lost pieces of paper instead of fresh meats and furs, to risk their lives all for knowledge of men.

 _Tel garas solasan, Da’len_ , Gennol had told her. This is a path we cannot tread back, child.

In her younger age, Deshanna had raged against her insolence, and she knew why. Who was she, this old mother, this hunter past her prime, to tell the greatest mage the clan had seen in her lifetime that she was too full of pride? It was only when Elun lay dying, infected by blight-sickness that the guards were not skilled enough to keep away from the camp that she finally stopped being consumed by her anger. It was if Elun had sent a spirit to guide the child - no, no child at this point, she was a woman of five and thirty - to hold a hand to Deshanna’s heart and still it. Now over a decade later when she told her, _Tel garas solasan_ , as she had when Deshanna told her to mask her face in cloak and leave the clan to attend the shemlen conclave, her Keeper would smile softly.

“We persevere. We survive. But we must adapt our ways. We cannot stay the same in a world that is reaching a new age.”

 _“Mar Solas ena ma din, Da’len_ ,” she replied. “You think you can change this world but it ebbs, and flows, and comes around again. There will be no great change from this. I will go to your conclave and report to you, my Keeper. I will go, and I will bring you the knowledge you need so you do not waste a younger life by sending them to the wolves.”

“ _Telendas_ , Gennol. Change is coming whether we want it or not and I will be sure we can weather it. I will lead us through this age, I swear it.”

“ _Solas, Solas_ , Deshanna.”

She could feel the hot touch of her Keeper’s hand on hers, the grip hard as Deshanna smiled at her, spoke more words that she could not hear. She couldn’t place her age anymore; was this the Keeper who sent her or the child she had guided? Years seemed to be melting in to each other, the grip on her hand tightening until she thought she would scream. She looked down at the hand she held and saw only green.

“ _Lethallan_?”

She watched as the face of her young charge melted away entirely, became pale and open mouthed, filled around the cheeks and grew old before her eyes.

“Help me!”

“What’s going on here? Deshanna?”

She reached out to the woman who reached back with all of her being, but she couldn’t see past the green light pulsing and burning her eyes as it took her over and into a place she had not seen before, cracking as it spat her out into darkness.

* * *

“Solas? Does she wake?”

She could hear a voice in the corner of her consciousness, something entirely unfamiliar to her, the sound of a woman with an accent unlike any she could place. Nothing in her body could move, her eyes locked shut as if weighed down by tethers, her lips parched and dry, her nose bloodied. She could feel her chest move with effort, and quickly became aware of the fits of breath escaping her mouth. She tried to sit up, but her body remained frozen as another voice spoke.

“It is not safe, Seeker. She is not ready.”

A growl of anger came from the first voice. “Make her ready. We need to know.”

“No. It is not safe.”

“Do not give me a reason to turn you both out into the snow, Apostate.”

Two hands lay on her ribs, low enough to push against her lungs, forcing her into a steady breath. She tried to move again, pushing with her breath to lift her shoulders, but nothing. There were only two possibilities. Loss of control of her body to injury, or magic.

“Give me one day, Seeker. I will do what I can.”

She did not hear the Seeker reply. Instead, she heard the soft clatter of armour and the closing of a heavy door.

The hands on her chest moved up her body, grasping around her neck for a second before tilting her head up. She felt the coolness of drops of water fed to her lips from a finger, gently swirling moisture to her teeth. She felt soft, un-calloused hands wipe away the crust from her eyes and nose, before they moved to settle, thumbs on her temples.

“Now… rest.”

* * *

She had hoped sleep would take her back to her clan. She had hoped that in sleep she would walk up through the trees and to the clearing where she had left them in the forest, that Deshanna would see her return and, instead of rushing to her, would tell the children. That Arlais would drop her wooden sword to run to her, her long plait swinging behind her as she ran. That Cefin would follow, stout Cefin who thought himself to grown but would bury his face in her stomach anyway, and finally the smallest; little Efa would toddle behind them, raising her arms to be held up to the sun to catch her soft-blonde curls. That her sons would join them, Goronwy taking his children to the fire as she peeled off her armour. She hoped her dreams would take her to the fire pit with her granddaughter’s sleepy head in her lap, but instead she found herself in open land, nothing but a bow and one arrow. And, in the distance, a man. Or, at least she thought it was a man. It had no form, now she looked again. It could be a spirit, taking advantage of her weakened state to cross through the veil, though in truth she had not much believe that women such as her attracted such attention from the beyond.

“You arm yourself even here.”

She felt her hand on her bow grip, fingers running over the binding. The voice echoed through the emptiness, forming patterns in the air around them, reaching out through the distance as the world bent to their sound.

“I do not know you,” she replied, her voice dry and dead in the air. “I cannot see your face.”

“You know my voice.”

She had almost forgotten the moment of waking, but he was right. It was the voice that belonged to the hands on her ribs. The hands that brought her to this rest.

Her own hands stilled on her weapon.

“What are you doing here, stranger? Who are you?”

There was a light chitter on the breeze for a moment, a soft laugh that made her skin prick.

“If there are to be introductions, let us do them properly when you wake.”

“I shall wake then?”

“You shall. If you stop fighting it.”

She felt the being move closer, even if she couldn’t see it change. The speed of it almost knocked her off her feet. She felt weak still. Weak and out of control. She could feel the presence in front of her, close enough to stab with a dagger if it came closer, close enough that she should be able to see a face, but instead there was an absence, a lack of anything she could hold on to.

“Why can’t I see you?”

“You do not know me. You cannot know me. You cannot place what you do not know, not even here.”

She did not know what to say to that. Here was the fade, then, but also surely here was an in-between, formed of the absence of anything she had. She remembered tales of the in-between being the thinnest parts of the shifting parts, the place where you would meet Falon’Din with nothing but yourself. Yet she still had her bow. She still had her bow, the grip rough under her thumb.

The voice continued. “You’re fighting the act of waking because your body wants to be what it was before. You want to be back where you were before. I understand, believe me, I do, but it’s time to wake up now. It’s time to get started, as we are.”

“Get started on what?”

“You’ll only know if you wake.”

“And will I?” she said before she could catch herself. “Will I certainly wake?”

There had been many times in the past few years where she had started to ask if she would. She was slower on her aim than she was, her hands starting to lock at inopportune moments. Some nights her breath felt heavy on her chest. Some nights, she looked back at the past… sixty years? Maybe more? She looked back and thought that maybe this was enough, that this moon would be her last. She found herself thinking that the life she had lead was enough, that her children would survive. That her time in this was done. There was no need to endure more.

The presence shifted again. Closer.

“You will meet me there if you do. I promise that.”

She felt a hand on her again, this time placed under her breast, against the pounding beat of her heart.

_“Wake up.”_


End file.
